


My Heart Beats Dull from this Foreign Soil

by i_amtheoutlaw



Series: Works on Hiatus [1]
Category: Supernatural, The Americans (TV 2013)
Genre: 1980s, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1980s, Cold War, Coming Out, Destiel - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-12
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2017-12-19 06:50:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/880720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_amtheoutlaw/pseuds/i_amtheoutlaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say all's fair in love and cold war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction Time

**Author's Note:**

> This has all been beta-ed by Diana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introducing Castiel. Dean Winchester. And Jimmy Novak.

[ ](http://tinypic.com?ref=33waxad)

-C-

Right now he finds himself in a bit of a predicament, standing in the house of a man named George Guttenburg, most likely staining the man’s carpet with his loafers. His assignment was to come and question this man about the top secret design of a nuclear missile shield and find out where he kept the blueprints, but . . . 

Dear old George here isn’t talking. Now, normally, they’d send in a lady officer instead; to fuck it out of the poor bastard, but, unluckily for George here, these blueprints seem to be of grave importance. Thus, Castiel. As much as he sometimes resents the label, Castiel’s always been the hammer. They call him in when something needs to be done fast and messy; like getting urgent information and killing the informer. So he supposes their choice is acceptable. Besides, Castiel's most likely saving Meg from a horrible Gutten-fuck. Castiel could save that woman from a thousand fat pig's and their American cocks without a thanks, though. 

George has both hands tied behind his back and his feet tied to the chair. Since he’s not going anywhere, Castiel takes his time scoping the man’s office. Finding a brief case under the desk, he realizes this fool was probably about ten minutes away from selling the blueprints to somebody. _Oh well, easier for me,_ Castiel thinks, snapping the case shut, and striding back over to a pathetically frantic looking Mr. Guttenburg. He sighs.

After gagging the man, Castiel knocks him out silently. He drags the dead weight into the dark of the night and stuffs the limp body in his trunk. After driving for about thirty minutes, he finally reaches the alleyway where Meg said to drop the body. Pulling up, he avoids the street lights as much as possible and, after clearing every viewpoint and checking for signs of life, exits the car. Castiel drags the body from the trunk and into the alley. Propping the heavy weight up against the wall, he holds the body upright with his forearm. The dead weight begins to stir just as Castiel pulls his knife out. However, the gag keeps the man silent the whole time as Castiel shoves the knife in, piercing the man’s heart. Taking off the gag, Castiel steals the dead man’s wallet and watch, then turns and walks away. 

How rude, he should have introduced himself. The name’s Castiel Krushnic, KGB officer stationed in Philly. He’s never really liked using guns, blades were always his thing.

-D-

Right now, he’s driving down the highway in the passenger seat of his dad’s ‘baby.’ The trees are passing by in a green blur and the wind whisking in from the open window is smacking him in the face.

Dean’s never once been to Philly, and he’s not exactly excited about it, but Uncle Bobby did say they have this awesome burger joint about four miles from the neighborhood he’s moving into and that’s a _huge_ plus.

The new house is awesome and when he says awesome, Dean means _awesome._ If his expression was anything to go by, Sammy might of actually pissed his pants a little when dad slowed down and pulled in the driveway. 

For one, it’s _huge._ It’s bigger than any house they’ve ever lived in. It even has two whole stories. Secondly, it actually looks homey; instead of broken brick, broken wood, and scummy, failing paint jobs, this house is prime. It’s all brick with white trim, and it even has a little flower bed in front. Lastly, Sammy will actually get his own room, and at age fourteen he should have his own damn room.

In all honesty, Dean wasn’t expecting this at all. Normally this isn’t the type of house his dad goes for, hopefully this means dad is planning on staying longer than a couple of months. Dean, inwardly, hopes this means his dad will be around more too. Maybe the new suburban house will turn John into a new suburban dad. Dean’s not putting too much hope in that though. 

They arrived around nine a.m., and now it’s about eleven a.m. Sammy’s inside messing with the new radio, and Dean and his dad are dragging the last of the living room furniture out of the moving truck and into the house. 

Over the past three hours they’ve had a total of four neighbors stop by and bring them food, which is just plain rude if anyone wants Dean’s opinion. Honestly people, at least wait until they get all their shit inside or offer to help out. Damn. Although, Dean’ll admit, he probably wouldn’t be mad if these people would bring something appetizing, like anything other than veggie dip, veggie mush bull shit, and meatloaf. _Hmmm, something like pie,_ Dean thinks, _Yes. That sounds perfect._

They finally get the last of the furniture inside, and Dean yells over the sound of the radio to let Sammy know he’s hopping in the shower. Dean starts towards last doorway on right, he can practically feel the cool tiles under his swollen, over-worked feet already, and slight prickle of steaming water flushing away the sweat covering his skin. Continuing his day dream down the hallway, Dean’s already unbuttoning his shirt, but he’s stopped by Sammy shutting off the music.

Within the new found silence of the house Dean hears voices, they sound like they’re coming from the front door. _Damn,_ Dean thinks, inwardly groaning, _more friggin’ neighbors? Honestly? How friendly do these Philly people need to be?_

He supposes that’s just the price they have to pay for living in a decent neighborhood now—putting up with boring, practical, and eventless families living next door—which he will admit, is a lot better than explaining to Sammy why the new neighbors are drunker than skunks and pissing on the garage (this happened twice, actually). 

Buttoning his shirt back up, Dean heads back towards the steps just as Sammy yells up, “These are all mine!” 

Smiling, Dean yells back, “as long as it’s not meatloaf you are sharing!” 

Reaching the midway point on the steps Dean sees a guy standing alone in the doorway across from Sam. _Since when do wives just send their husbands to bring food to the new neighbors?_ Dean wonders. Everyone else who's stopped by today brought the whole dang family, one couple even brought their nasty little mutt co-co. 

When Dean reaches the bottom, his feet find the still unfamiliar wood floor, the man finally becomes completely clear and damn—he is— _um_ —

This is where Dean’s life takes a tricky turn, and he should probably introduce himself now. The name’s Dean Winchester, he likes classic cars, rock music, and frisky women. Oh yeah, he can’t forget to mention the part about sometimes swinging _that way_.


	2. Fuck Your Whiskey, Mr. Winchester

  
[ ](http://tinypic.com?ref=1zwdpxl)

"That's awesome."

-C-

Waking up the next morning he goes straight downstairs to find himself a huge glass of water. He’s not getting any younger and all these damn late hours are really starting to get to him. He guides his foggy body down the staircase, and on the last step something catches his attention from outside. Making his way through the living room, he stops in front of the window to check it out. Everything on the block seems normal, except the large moving truck in the driveway across the street.

The Mullen’s and their annoying little dog moved out three months ago, and the house has been empty since. New neighbors are no big deal really, Castiel has dealt with many over the past sixteen years. Knowing it’s customary in America to go and be friendly, Castiel sighs. 

Nothing is welcoming about his appearance right now, and it’s usually customary to bring some sort of food. _Better get to work,_ he thinks, already making his way to the kitchen.

Pulling out the bowls from the cupboard, he selects the largest one. Brownies always sound good to Castiel, so that’s what he’s going with. After preheating the oven to 350 degrees, he starts mixing together the ingredients.

Adding the cocoa powder, butter, two eggs, sugar, milk, and baking powder, he mixes until the contents are one smooth texture. These new neighbors are lucky he doesn’t just say screw it and eat all the batter; but he doesn’t. Instead Castiel pulls out a pan and slowly pours in the chocolaty contents, letting them flow evenly, meeting all corners. He shoves the pan in the oven and heads up stairs for a quick shower.

The bathroom tiles are cold on his feet, but the spreading heat steaming from behind the curtain instantly warms him. Pulling back the plastic-y fabric, he steps in, washing until the hot water has completely reddened his skin.

Wrapping the damp towel around his waist, he returns back downstairs to check on the brownies. The heat from the oven smacks him in the face and he has to squint while he reaches in and pulls the flakey brownies out. A chocolaty aroma fills the house. _Mmmm,_ Castiel inwardly moans, he knows today is going to be a good day from the mere fact his house will smell like this for the rest of it.

Letting the brownies cool, Castiel retreats back upstairs to find something decent to wear. He decides on plain black jeans and a grey Hawkwind shirt.

Back downstairs, he cuts the brownies into perfect squares and lines them up on a platter. After covering them in saran wrap, he starts the waiting game.

Sundays are always boring for Castiel, no work—KGB or radio sales, his ‘daytime’ job —just relaxing.

Becoming restless, he turns the radio all the way up and starts cleaning.

The house is spotless by the time Castiel makes his way back over to the window, and when he notices the moving truck is finally gone, he smiles. Now another car that’s parked in the driveway is visible. It looks like an older impala, way too flashy for Castiel’s taste. 

Grabbing the plate, he heads out the door. 

Approaching the door, Castiel hears music playing loudly and voices singing along. 

He gives the wood two loud knocks and the music quickly stops. Dropping his hand, he anxiously waits for an answer. The door swings open, revealing a young teenage boy; smiling widely and tucking his brown, shaggy hair behind his ears. The boy can’t be more than sixteen, going by his pudgy cheeks. Although he does have a good five or six inches on Castiel already.

“How can I help you?” The boy asks, never letting his smile fade.

And this, _this_ right here, is where Castiel’s life gets tricky . . . 

He joined the KGB at fifteen years old. First he learned self-defense, and by the time his eighteenth birthday came around, Castiel was skilled in what they call убить или умереть, translation: kill or be killed combat. This combat includes an extensive knowledge in firearms, explosives, and pure fighting skills. After mastering all the physical requirements a KGB officer must have, next he studied American culture for two years. These studies included learning how to speak English without any type of accent.

The last year he was in Moscow was spent preparing for Castiel’s life as an undercover spy in America. They gave him a whole new identity to study and learn, and as soon as they assigned him, he was told that he was never allowed to speak of his previous life ever again, and Castiel hasn’t, besides the brief remarks sometimes passed between he and Meg. They gave him the name Jimmy Novak.

Jimmy’s a radio salesman from Bradford, who moved to Philly for a job and stayed ever since. His father died in a car crash when he was nine, and his mother lives in Bradford (really it’s just an elderly KGB officer placed there to help Castiel look less suspicious). Jimmy lives a boring life in a square stack of bricks, on top of a square stack of bricks, on street full of square stacks of brick. 

Upon arriving in America, Castiel was barely twenty one and the year was 1965. He was just old enough to drink by their standards and it seemed like all that the men around him were concerned with was getting drunk and finding women to sleep with. At first, the total lack of efficacy and inner power the everyday American man proves himself made Castiel sick, although he got used to their pathetic behavior after a year or so. 

The year is now 1981 and, as the war heats up, things are progressively intensifying for spies. Although his life as Jimmy never changes, he goes to work and sell radios. Comes home, eats, sleeps, showers, and feeds Arlo, the cat. 

Castiel used to worry about being here without a family, and not being able to engage with the Americans correctly; because when they taught him to fit in they specifically said, “you will be friends with the Americans because that’s the American way and they will find it suspicious if you don’t,” and most other operatives were paired with another officer to start a new life together. Although when Castiel expressed his concern to Meg she laughed and said, “Castiel I knew you would never fit in with the Americans, but its okay because even the Americans have their misfits; and as long as no one catches you, you’re doing your job. I wouldn’t have sent you here if I didn’t think you could do it.” 

And he has been doing it, and doing it damn well. So Castiel answers smoothly, letting the long-told lie slide off his tongue:

“I’m Jimmy Novak, I live in the house across the street,” Castiel announces as he gestures towards his house. “And I’ve come to welcome you to the neighborhood,” he adds while offering up the brownies, which the boy quickly snatches up.

“Mmmmm,” the shaggy haired boy hums as he pulls off the wrapping. Then turning to yell over his shoulder he screams, “These are all mine!” 

At the boys words, another man comes hurtling down the stairs, Castiel can hear him saying something like, ‘hell no. As long as it’s not meatloaf I’m getting some Sammy.’

The man comes into view once he reaches the bottom of the stairs, although he isn’t really a man. His voice is deep and made him sound a lot older than he actually looks. He’s wearing beat up old jeans, covering his bowed legs, and on top he’s wearing a dark blue cotton button up. His hair is sandy brown and his eyes are a shade of green Castiel’s never seen before—on anyone—in Moscow or the US.

-D-

This guy is handsome, and Dean’ll say that for sake of the little heterosexuality he has left. Finding men attractive isn’t necessarily something Dean _always_ does. Sure, he occasionally, well, a lot more recently, will catch his eyes lingering a little more than they should on . . . let’s say the blonde bag boy named Tim who works at the grab and go in Indy, their last town.

But _this,_ this guy is different. Dean finds him very smokin,’ yes, but there’s something else about him that attracts Dean. A darkness which surrounds him. A sort of un-tangible baggage buried deep that only someone like Dean could be attracted to. 

And his eyes. His eyes are blue, so blue. If Dean was a poet, he’d compare them to the deep waters of the ocean; highlighted by the frozen icebergs that float on top of the salty waves. And he would say his brown hair is so dark and deep it could almost be mistaken for black if the sun wasn’t lightning strands, fading them into milk-chocolaty highlights that find their way through his messy tuffs. But Dean’s not a total sap. So. Yeah. He’ll just stick with admitting that the combination of bright blue and dark brown is a unique look, one Dean’s never quite seen before. 

Eyes wandering as he walks closer, he tries not to look obvious, but Dean’s definitely checking this guy out. He can’t help it, the guys sharp features are drawing Dean in. By the time he reaches the position next to Sammy, Dean has to abruptly cut his thoughts short, before he can finish imagining his hands exploring every inch of the man’s smooth skin. Because he honestly might just pop a boner if he keeps that up. 

As Dean attempts to ignore the hotness in front of him, he directs his attention to the plate of little brown squares Sam has. Grabbing the plate from Sam’s hand, Dean brings it up to his face, letting his eyes find the stranger again as he gives the brownies a drastic whiff . . . and damn do these brownies deserve some dramatic sniffling, they smell delicious.

Breaking his eyes away again, to look at Sam, Dean speaks, “Yeah, you are definitely sharing these.”

Dean shoves the plate back at Sam, eyes finding the stranger again.

After what feels like five minutes of long, blank, _trying not to look totally turned on,_ staring, Dean finally realizes he needs to speak, “I’m Dean, and this is my brother Sam.”

The stranger sheds the blank expression he’s been wearing since Dean entered and lets a half smile part his lips. Dean can see the tip of his teeth peeking from underneath the thick pink flesh and they’re pearly white. His mind almost floats away, along with the best of his composure, as Dean starts thinking about those smooth bones and soft gums nibbling their way down his neck. 

Regaining control of his imagination, Dean notices the man’s eyes again. This new found expression illuminates his eyes in a new, and vibrant light. Although, unlike most people whose smiles tend to warm the air around them, this smile, these eyes, they’re misleading. Sure, Dean can feel the presence of warmth and happiness pulsing around the far edges but it’s only masking the downright cold aroma swelling around the man.

“I’m Jimmy Novak, I live . . .”

Oh God, _sweet angels._ His voice, Jimmy’s friggin’ deep raspy sound waves are music to Dean’s ears.

Sam cuts Jimmy off as he’s about to explain which house he lives in by leaning out the door and pointing to the house directly across the street.

“Right there,” Sam squeaks. 

“That’s awesome,” Dean says, mostly in lack of a better remark.

Dean never knew one word, _awesome,_ could create so much distress so fast. Jimmy’s half smile is gone instantly and replaced with a wide, lifeless glare, searching Dean for an explanation. His tightly sealed lips, completely scrunched brow, and a small tilt of his head to the right might be the cutest thing Dean has ever seen though. _In a totally normal way, of course,_ Dean tells himself.

Trying to hide his amusement, Dean explains, “We got a neighbor who can cook some kick ass brownies.” 

The confused look slips from Jimmy’s face, taking up a wide smile instead. Although the smile, same as before, is somewhat cold. 

“Why thank you Dean . . ?” Jimmy questions.

“Winchester, Dean Winchester.”

“Well nice to meet you Winchesters,” he adds, and Dean can tell by Jimmy’s tone that the other man is about to retreat back home. 

Normally he would already be thinking of a million excuses to get the neighbors gone as fast as possible, although now Dean finds himself racing through a million excuses just to get Jimmy to stay longer.

One hits him fast and sharp, and before Dean even has time to think it through, he hears himself blurting it out, “do you wanna come in? I’m sure my dad would love to meet you.”

Dean really didn’t need one of Sam’s quick _what the hell do you think you’re doing_ bitch faces to realize that might not have been the best idea. But of course, he gets one. 

His dad is . . . well, John Winchester isn’t one who can much be described. But he has a tendency to scare people away. Dean’s not quite sure if it’s the whole F.B.I. agent thing that freaks people out the most, the alcohol, or just his Dad’s personality in general. 

_Oh well,_ Dean thinks, still smiling. It’s too late to take it back now anyway. “Sure,” Jimmy says with a casual smile. 

The excitement of Jimmy’s agreement allows Dean to ignore the death stare he’s receiving from Sam. Sammy is clearly just as worried about losing their newly found brownie connection, to their dad’s intimidating behavior, as Dean is about losing Jimmy’s beautiful face to stare at. 

“Great! Sam go get Dad.”

-C-

Following Dean into his house, he gestures for Castiel to sit on the couch.

“Dad’s great, I bet you guys will get along good. I know he’ll love your shirt.” Dean explains. 

Before he can answer, Castiel hears heavy footsteps falling behind him and turns around to find a man both way wider and taller than Sam and Dean combined. 

“Hello Mr. Winchester, I’m Jimmy, I live right across the street.”

“Jimmy, huh?” The man has a rough and broken voice, “well you can call me John, cut all the _Mr._ bullshit.”

“My apologies.” 

“Don’t be sorry,” John says as he walks around and grabs the bottle of Seagram’s that’s sitting on the table in the corner, “you drink, Jimmy?”

“I am, if you are.”

Dean and John both laugh at that and Castiel really doesn’t understand what’s funny, but of course he smiles along with them.

John finds the lounge chair to the left of him while Dean runs into the kitchen, emerging back in the room with three glasses, which is very strange, because Castiel could swear the drinking age in Philly is twenty-one, and he had only pinned Dean to be, at oldest, nineteen.

John takes the glasses and lets the liquor flow evenly into all three then distributes one to Dean and one to Castiel.

Waiting until they both drink, Castiel then sips his. _Ugh. Nasty-ass whiskey,_ he thinks, inwardly cursing a bit, but he swallows it without any distress all the same.

“So Jimmy, tell me about yourself? How long have you lived in this neighborhood?” John asks. 

He’s learned over the years that there is no reason to fret when Americans question him. John’s simply trying to make conversation. So Castiel answers smoothly, “too damn long, sixteen years. I moved here for a crappy radio salesman job and haven’t discovered anything better to do with my life yet.”

“Damn, sixteen years? We’ve never lived anywhere for more than sixteen months!” Dean exposes. 

“Oh yeah?” Castiel asks, “how come?”

John answers for Dean, voice rough as ever, “Cause of me, my job moves us around a lot.”

Sam’s higher pitched voice cuts in before Castiel can even respond, “Dad’s a FBI agent, he’s real important.”

_What the fuck did he just say?_ Castiel thinks, his mind reeling, _F.B. what? F.B.I?_

Castiel’s really sitting here drinking this dirty liquor with an officer of the American federal bureau of intelligence? _My luck? Of course I am, why wouldn’t I be?_ He inwardly curses. He tries not to let the shock show on his face. Although his heart beats a bit faster.

“Oh Sammy, I’m not important, my jobs just a bunch of paperwork,” John adds, and Castiel really fucking hopes it’s just paperwork.

“Don’t lie Dad,” Dean counters while he sips his drink again and Castiel can tell by his voice that Dean’s more than proud of his dad. He looks right into Castiel’s eyes, but points at his father as he explains, “Dad went undercover for five months last year . . . he took down a whole group of white supremacist.”

Dean’s eyes burn into Castiel’s skull and he tries his hardest to stay calm; while having his face seem “American interested” which is kind of a mix between excitement/concern. This guy, John—his new neighbor—is a fucking F.B.I. agent. A F.B.I. agent who just happens to be the kind that goes out and lives with fucking crazy ass white supremacists for five months at time. _Paper work my fucking ass,_ Castiel thinks.

Sam’s voice doesn’t sound as excited now, Castiel suspects it’s because he misses his father while he’s away, “Uncle Bobby says Dad’s gonna catch all the commie spies next and then he’ll be there to ship their asses back home to get tried.”

Castiel’s insides are instantly bursting with rage. _Commie spies? They’re going to catch us? Haha._ He laughs to himself, because that’s fucking funny, _and this Uncle Bobby character thinks he’s going to get us to talk?_ Like any of the KGB would ever commit treason to please a piece of shit F.B.I. agent. They’d rather die. But Castiel keeps his cool, because that’s his job; and if they tempt the Motherland, then they’ll take every one of those smug sons of bitches like John down, one by one, before the war can even start. 


	3. Better Luck Next Time, Regan

[ ](http://tinypic.com?ref=29f2zc0)

"Meg has always complained about his hatred for dressing up. Disguises just 

make Castiel feel silly, although Meg refers to masking 

yourself as an _art._ "

-D-

Jimmy and John actually hit it off, well, they did as much as Dean’s dad is able to _hit it off_ with anyone. Jimmy was able to keep up with drinking dad’s whiskey without a sour face, which was definitely a good start.

Honestly, Dean was a little disappointed that Jimmy could sip the whole glass without one flawed entrance of liquor. He wanted to see Jimmy’s sharp cheekbones pucker under the swift jerk of muscles beneath his skin and Jimmy’s Adam’s apple bob relentlessly. And there he goes with the friggin’ poetry again. Watching him sip slowly and effortlessly was almost as good, though.

Lord help him. _What is wrong with me?_ Dean wonders. Here he is, still lying in bed at—hold on—seven in the morning, and his mind is already filled with thoughts of the new neighbor. In Dean’s defense, Jimmy is gorgeous. And mysterious. And interesting.

Man, Dean swears he wasn’t always this gay. _Man, I swear I’m NOT that gay,_ Dean thinks, inwardly cursing himself.

Jesus, if his dad was able to read Dean’s thoughts, he’d be friggin’ toast. 

But his dad will never find out, because Dean doesn’t just go around screwing every guy he finds attractive. Honestly, he’s never actually had sex with a man. Although, Dean has had several oral experiments with a few, and hot damn, were they good! 

Which brings his thoughts spiraling back to Jimmy and how his pink plush lips would slide over Dean’s skin, and . . . _yep, there goes my dick,_ Dean sighs to himself, _half way hard already._

Of course as soon as Dean starts thinking dirty would be the exact time he hears footsteps hurtling up the stairs. 

Wait for it—

“Dean!” He hears Sammy’s voice ring through the closed door. 

Throwing the covers back, Dean sits up fast. Something in Sammy’s voice doesn’t sound right, “Yeah, Sam, come on in,” Dean yells back.

The door bursts open and reveals Sammy wearing the wide eyed, scared shitless look he gets when Dad’s on one. But honestly, could John be drunk already? It’s seven in the freaking morning and a work day! 

“Dean, it’s the president, he’s been shot . . . it must be a big deal Dad took off in a hurry before it was even on the news.”

Jumping off the bed, Dean pushes past Sam and into the hallway, completely forgetting about pants. When the president’s been shot you don’t take time to put on clothes, this is America.

Downstairs he finds the TV, Sam already has the channel on, which is good, because this TV is way newer than their old one and it probably would have taken Dean a year to figure it out.

A women in a—more than alarming—red dress suit is explaining the situation, “early this morning Regan was sent to the hospital with a gunshot wound. The shooter has yet to be found. . .”

_Friggin’ communist, I swear to God,_ Dean thinks, groaning out loud. 

A selfish idea in the midst of all of it hits Dean. Running back up the steps, Dean starts to change.

He stumbles while getting his jeans on and he has to search through two different drawers before he finds a clean white undershirt. _Now where’s that damn flannel?_ Dean wonders.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Dean sees Sam by the door. Although Dean’s moving too fast to really catch his expression he imagines Sammy’s face is scrunched up, expressing his harsh questioning of Dean’s weird actions.

_Ah hah!_ Dean smiles upon locating the dang thing. Jo always tells Dean that he looks good in this shirt, she said the red makes his eyes stand out or some shit.

Rushing past Sam without a word, Dean hears his brother’s sigh of frustration. So he calls back to Sam, while still making his way to the bathroom, “shoes on Sammy,” because Sam’s already dressed considering his bus is supposed to be here in . . . _damn it,_ Dean thinks, he’s lost track of time again!

This bathroom is still foreign to Dean, and Sam put away all the easy things—like hygiene materials and kitchen supplies—so it takes Dean a minute of searching through drawers before he locates his toothbrush and the toothpaste. 

Squeezing the bottle until the waste paste covers the bristles, Dean begins to brush vigorously. The suds instantly fill his mouth and slaughter any bad breath he may have had.

After turning on the sink, Dean spits. 

Rinsing his mouth out and his face off for good measure, he heads downstairs. 

Dean finds Sammy already by the door, shoes on and waiting.

“Where are we going, Dean?” Sam asks while Dean’s busy lacing up his boots. 

-C-

Waking in the morning, Castiel finds himself fully rested. Apparently, even the grossest of the liquors can bring soundless sleep. He’s honestly just lucky Meg didn’t call him randomly last night with orders. Castiel hates and is already terrible at ‘acting,’ and being tipsy while mastering a disguise just seems like too much work. 

Meg has always complained about his hatred for dressing up. Disguises just make Castiel feel silly, although Meg refers to masking yourself as an art; as most officers do. Despite feeling dumb when pretending to be someone he’s not—even though he technically does that all the time—Castiel feels it’s unneeded for him. Unlike some of the other agents living here, like Meg for example, who are sent off to mingle with government officials at parties and such, Castiel does most his work at night. He lets the darkness of the sky mask him and his swift, soundless movements from years of training be his disguise. 

Dawning on him suddenly, Castiel burst from his warm place under the covers. _John,_ he thinks, groaning into his empty bedroom. That smug prick is going to seriously deflate Castiel’s chances for nighttime missions now. As soon as Meg discovers, that is, if she doesn’t already know Castiel’s new neighbor works for the F.B.I, she will fear letting him leave in the middle of the night. It makes sense, Castiel supposes, he really shouldn’t be prancing around in the middle of the night for no reason. He could always lie and claim vampire-ship. 

Castiel lets the complete shock of yesterday take hold as he sags back down into the mattress, and rests his head on his fluffy pillow. 

_Great,_ Castiel sighs, things are going to get progressively more tough now that he’s constantly within the eyes of the F.B.I. Although, Castiel has yet to meet a challenge he couldn’t beat. Even back in Moscow, Castiel never backed down from a challenge. Whether said challenge was a boxing match with Ermolai, the beefiest trainer in the KGB, or the challenge of learning how to speak English without an accent. So Castiel, this time, will certainly not let one little John Winchester stand in the way of serving his country.

After finding out John worked for the F.B.I, Castiel did a rather good job at hiding his distress, even though his insides were churning with lava at the utter disrespect of being so nonchalantly disregarded as _commie_ and having all his brothers and sisters of the KGB labeled as _traitors._

Keeping the talking to a minimum, Castiel simply found out as much as possible about this new, American-born family. He learned Sam plans to be a lawyer and Dean—though he hasn’t graduated—will not be returning back to school here in Philly. Castiel had to bite his own tongue to keep from spilling out, ‘well maybe if you didn’t let your high school son drink in front of you, like its legal, he’d still be interested in school.’

The more John talked, the more Castiel started hating him. Griping about Communists and their godless government, John really was working Castiel’s nerves, but for some reason Castiel couldn’t find the words to leave. 

Okay, so maybe _couldn’t_ isn’t the right word.

Castiel found that every time Dean spoke, despite how misguided and foolish the boy was, he couldn’t take his eyes off of the glowing buzzed smile that had become Dean. 

_Didn’t want to,_ seems more, let’s say, fitting.

He even found himself sad after John declared ‘he had to go shower or he was gonna miss his hot date.’ 

He was sad because he had to leave Dean’s presence. Now, thinking back on it, Castiel realizes it really was quite strange. The feelings he had, disappointment, shyness, and altogether desire are ones he’s never felt. Never, again, being a bad choice of words, he has felt feelings like that before. Only never here, never for an American. 

Declaring, despite his true wishes, the he too must leave in order to feed his cat, Dean walked Castiel to the door. 

Before Castiel made it through the doorway, he felt a warm firm hand land on his shoulder, turning he found Dean and every ounce of his warming green eyes staring at him.

“Don’t be a stranger,” Dean said, “as you can see it’s really just me and Sammy, we don’t have a mom to make us brownies or a dad to take us to soccer practices. And honestly we’ve never lived in one place long enough to make any good friends, so don’t just run away and never come back because my Dad’s a federal dick, okay?”

Willing it not to, despite his efforts, Dean’s story hit home. Not with Jimmy, but with Castiel. Remembering back to his childhood in the motherland, Castiel thinks of his struggling mother and his absent father. Suddenly, wishing for nothing more than to comfort the halfway grown, American boy, Castiel explained, “I enjoyed the company, and don’t worry I’m not running anywhere, this has been my house for the past sixteen years and it’s going to stay that way, and if you and Sam need anything you know where I’ll be.”

Despite their different backgrounds, Castiel already sees himself in Dean—not like that—he just means that he and Dean are alike in many ways. Thoughts of Dean’s smile, and caring eyes instantly warms Castiel’s stomach. Only real men respect their ignorant, clearly drunk fathers all while stepping up and taking their place as a dutiful guardian for their sibling. Castiel can tell now, despite Dean still being young, that one day the teenager will make a remarkable man. 

Before he fell asleep last night, Castiel sent a signal to Meg requesting they meet soon.

Which brings him back here groggy brained and over rested, rolling out of bed and stumbling into the bathroom for a hot shower.

Rushing his morning, Castiel quickly deals with his hygiene, first brushing his teeth, then showering. 

Dressing is easy for him on weekdays considering Castiel always wears the same get-up to work. Black suit that’s not too fancy, white button up, and a blue tie. Quickly tightening the silky fabric, Castiel adjust his already-tied tie. With one last do-over, Castiel ruffles his drying dark hair and sighs at the mess he made. Walking away, he thinks, _screw it._

Breakfast, like always, is half a bagel and coffee.

As he spreads the thin layer of cream cheese onto his bagel, Castiel hears a faint knock at the door. Dropping the bread, he makes his way through the living room and swings the door open. 

Before he can even greet them, Dean is pushing past Castiel and into the house. Sam follows close behind, looking apologetic. 

“Hello Dean.”

“Have you not watched the freaking news today?” Dean huffs as he rushes past and locates Castiel’s television.

Dean finds the power and the news channel. Reading the words on the screen— _The President’s been shot_ —Castiel tries not to let the excitement he’s feeling take over his face.

Despite his gratitude for whoever shot the dumb son of a bitch, Castiel realizes this is not good. This is really, really isn’t good because he’s almost ninety-nine percent positive this wasn’t the KGB. If they were going to send someone to take out Regan, Castiel’s positive they would send him, and the idea its one of them on their own command is even less likely. 

So who was it that shot the President? And who’s the blame going to fall on, is the question. 

“Someone shot the damn President!” Dean adds suddenly, like the news anchor isn’t blaring through the television explaining the situation. 

“I see, have you heard his condition?” Castiel asks, because if he’s dead, as much as Castiel dislikes Regan, whoever takes over for him could be way worse.

“He’s not dead, but he’s in critical,” Dean clarifies. 

“At least that’s what they’re telling us,” Sam re-clarifies.

Dean shoots Sam a disapproving older brother glare and Castiel has to mask his smile. Because Sam’s got it right, American media is used by the government to make the everyday American believe what they want them to believe. All the KGB knows this, it’s not like it’s a secret, the citicens here are just too stupid to see what's happening. 

Dean finishes watching the news lady talk until a less attractive man gets on and begins telling the same story with a little more detail. 

Finally clicking the power button, Dean turns around. His lean body seizes Castiel’s eyes, and, _fuck,_ yes. Lean is the only way Castiel can describe him. He’s not quite stocky yet, but he’s definitely not too boney or thin either. Dean also is dressed way differently today, yesterday he was simply wearing an old cotton button up and ripped-up jeans. Today, however, he’s sporting a tight white undershirt, a red and navy blue flannel, slightly-less ripped jeans, and a brown leather jacket; that frankly looks about three times too big for him. Letting his gaze shift to the only place he hasn’t soaked in—Dean’s face—Castiel has to hold back a gasp. 

Dean’s eyes are tumbling down Castiel’s body, intensely taking in every inch of him. As Dean reaches Castiel’s feet, his eyes snap back up and find Castiel’s face. Unable to break the connection, Castiel lets himself stare. 

-D-

When Dean’s eyes leave Jimmy’s attire, they find his face next, and , to Dean’s surprise, Jimmy’s already staring at him. And when Dean says staring, he means friggin’ _staring._ A flush instantly warms Dean’s cheeks and he breaks eye contact to study the floor instead. 

“You look like a tool,” Dean wrenches out, while finding Jimmy’s eyes again and letting a huge smile cover his face. Hopefully it’ll hide the redness he knows has taken up home on his cheeks. 

“I’m going to work Dean, I can’t wear jeans and a t-shirt all the time,” Jimmy argues, _and was that a whine I just heard? Dean wonders, smiling even wider, _was Jimmy actually whining?_ Maybe the attraction isn’t as one sided as Dean first thought. Jimmy continues, “It wouldn’t be acceptable.”_

“Acceptable-shmeptiable,” Dean spits out and a grin finally finds Jimmy’s face.

-C-

Later at work, Castiel gets the signal for a meet. He’s guessing he’ll be meeting Meg like usual.

The meet is set for six and on a road called Ronyet.

He exits work at 5:43. The car drive over is traffic-y and slow, especially compared to Castiel’s racing thoughts. He has no clue how Meg is going to react to this unfortunate situation.

He arrives at the spot at 5:59 exactly.

Spotting Meg, who’s already getting out of her silver town car and walking towards him, Cas braces himself for the worst.

She reaches Castiel’s car with in seconds and is suddenly sitting down next to him and slamming the door shut behind her. 

Meg breaks the silence first, gloved hands resting in her lap, “I suspect you’ve heard.”

“Yes,” Castiel turns to face her, “was this us?” 

“If it was, it didn’t come from Moscow,” Meg’s voice is calmer than it normally is, which means she’s more on edge than usual. 

If this wasn’t an order from Moscow, then it was probably just some random American, although that won’t stop the United States government from blaming the KGB. 

“Are they going to pin this on us? Is this what it’s all about?” Castiel asks next, because he doesn’t think it below the American government to plot this whole thing in attempt to find a reason to hit the motherland with a nuclear bomb.

“I’m not sure, but I do know we need to find out. I have orders to set operation gorilla in play,” Meg answers.

“You think it’s that serious?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think, Clarence, you know that,” she directs her attention away from him and gazes out the window. Clarence is a name Meg only uses when she’s trying for a lighter note.

“Right,” _Of course,_ Castiel sighs. Meg receives direct orders from Moscow, Castiel knows she doesn’t decide anything.

“You understand what this means?” she questions.

“Yes.”

“Good, I’ll see you soon, keep me informed on all progress,” Meg says as moves to leave the car but Castiel stops the movement by touching her shoulder.

“Is there something else, Jimmy?” Meg infers, dark brown eyes scanning every inch of him.

“Yes,” Castiel starts, “it’s about my new neighbors . . . the father . . . he works for the F.B.I.”

“Oh, I know, Clarence.” She smirks, “just be a good boy and don’t get caught . . . I don’t worry about you, you’ve always handled yourself.” 

At that, Meg pulls her dark chocolaty curl behind her ear, exits his car, looks both ways, and strides gracefully back to her car while lighting a cigarette.

Operation gorilla is for emergencies only. Someone in Moscow must feel very threatened. Operation gorilla is a move where they are assigned to take out all of the potential candidates that will take over (or even anyone who could possibly have a crucial decision making position on the war front) if the president dies or is too sick to continue.

Now with Regan only in critical position it seems rushed to set it in action. Although Castiel doesn’t make the decisions, he just does what he’s told. Instead of heading home, he heads east.


	4. Mysterious Dirt Stains

  
[ ](http://tinypic.com?ref=1691fmq)

"Unlike the openness of the street, being in the woods casts a shadow over his field of vision.

It reminds him of the thick woods growing by his first home in Moscow.

The way the breeze nibbles at his neck, the way he hears the green leaves rustling all around him. 

Only this isn’t the motherland, and he can’t begin to pretend it is."

-D-

Jo came to visit today and, well, that girl always, somehow, gets to Dean; and when he says gets to him, Dean means she looks at him seductively until he can’t take it anymore and is forced to push her up against something to kiss that look off her face. 

He managed to keep his lips to himself all day and, despite Dean’s track record, he’s actually never had sex with Jo. He’s really not planning on it. She’s more like Dean’s little sister, whether she wants to believe that or not. 

Although after a whole day of her visiting, Dean’s willpower finally evaporated and left him thirsty for just a little bit of Jo’s soft lips. 

Jo’s looking at him with those damn puppy dog eyes, her bottom lip hanging slightly out from her top one, and Dean knows exactly what she’s trying to say, _kiss me Dean I’m not going to be able to see you for another couple months so please_ , and of course he has to kiss her. 

It starts as a peck; Dean lets his lips barely press against hers and gently pulls away again. Although his retreat lasts about two seconds before Jo’s swinging her arm around his neck and pulling him back down. Their lips crash together and soon their mouths are moving in one steady motion. He feels her slip her arm roughly around his waist.

The way Jo slipped her arm around his waist sends slight chills down Dean’s spine. She is so aggressive; it used to scare him—it really did—because it would throw him off. Jo was Dean’s first kiss and even at the age of . . . _Ten?_ Dean thinks, she was the one to ignite it. As they got older and things were learned, she would always be the one to push things to the next level. Dean always felt like he was the one who should be aggressive, not her, but by the end of middle school Dean realized that Jo was just overly-aggressive for a girl. It’s probably due to the fact that her mother is a total badass who owns her own bar and raised Jo all by herself. 

Feeling her tongue scarcely run over his bottom lip, Dean lets his eyes drift shut.

-C-

He pulls up next to the heavily wooded area and puts his car in park. Rotating the resistant key, the engine abruptly sizzles to silence. He adds the keys to his pocket, causing the loose change to jingle around. Opening the door, he stands, adjusts himself and exits.

The woods are thick, and he’s only been to this forest once since arriving in America, to plant the sniper rifle he’s about to retrieve.

The smell of dewy grass replaces the smell of worn leather. The silent breeze sends a row of goose bumps down his spine as he strides over the small patch of shiny wet grass to meet the entrance of the woods. Pulling his trench tighter, he crosses the threshold of trees.

Unlike the openness of the street, being in the woods casts a shadow over his field of vision. It reminds him of the thick woods growing by his first home in Moscow. The way the breeze nibbles at his neck, the way he hears the green leaves rustling all around him. Only this isn’t the motherland, and he can’t begin to pretend it is. This, this _place_ , is nothing like the motherland. Castiel was made in a place where accepting charity is an unacceptable option. A country that was made by strong individuals. A place that taught him, in this life, someone will always want something in return for their kindness and any weak enough to fall prey, well, they will find that out the hard way. 

Veering off the main trail, his steps become quicker because he really needs to acquire a thicker jacket; Meg tells him he looks like a flasher, although Castiel has always loved his tan trench coat. Looking up, he sees the Alaskan cedar and knows he has about fifty more feet. 

Spotting the shine in his right peripheral, he approaches the box cautiously. A relieved sigh, that he didn’t know had been building inside, slips out. The whole walk he half expected to find a hole blown in the ground. 

Kneeling next to the titanium, he drops his head low enough to view the underside of the brim. 

_Nope, other side,_ he thinks, standing up and completely ignoring the few muddy leaves clinging to his pants, he loops around to the other side and mirrors the actions he did before. This time he sees it, the tiny black square and two wires connecting it to the box. He opens the little black box and types in the code, eight, six, five, two, eleven, six, three, and enter. A red, blinking light meaning ‘disarmed,’ blinks to life. 

Opening the box, another relieved sigh seeps out because he didn’t get reduced to a hole in the ground. Although looking at the sleek black sniper grinning up at him, he instantly has to smile back. Even though guns aren’t really his thing, he’ll admit, sitting 100 to 200 feet away and taking someone out is just one of those things that’ll make anyone feel bad ass. Placing the sniper in the black bag underneath it, he heads back to the car.

Castiel’s feet find the hard concrete as he searches his pocket, with the intentions of dislodging the keys from the spare change. Unsuccessful, he causes a few of the coins drop to the ground with a small bing. Ignoring the money, he drops to open the trunk.

Gently, he places the bag inside. With one last smirk, he slams the trunk shut.

Driving home, Castiel turns onto Rodeo Dr. He can see the Winchester’s driveway and two shadowy figures lurking around it.

As he rolls down the road the figures start to become clearer. Making one of them out as Dean, Cas smiles. As he gets closer, Castiel sees Dean push the other figure against the car. When Castiel’s about twenty feet away from both of their driveways, he slows down to a creep; by now he can see Dean and the figure—a blonde girl—quite clearly. Dean’s got his mouth on her neck and her thin arms are coaxing down his back and reaching around his waist. 

Pulling into the driveway, he tries to move swiftly out of the car without glancing back at Dean and his, uh, lady friend. Inevitably, Cas’s eyes are caught in the current that is Dean Winchester, and drift to the two bodies pressed up against the painted metal.

Castiel swings the car door shut. At the sound Dean’s eyes spring up and find his instantly. Castiel almost blushes, but then Dean is grinning, and pushing off the girl a bit.

-D-

Although instead of his closed eyelids bringing blackness and thoughts of Jo; the darkness instead brings images of vibrant blue. It doesn’t take long for Dean to realize his mind is instantaneously being overtaken by blue eyes and clumps of dark, messy hair. 

He doesn’t stop the thoughts from flowing, even though he really should. 

A sparkle of bright light breaks through the thin skin of his eyelids. Letting his eyes part slightly, creeping headlights appear in Dean’s line of vision. The lights dim as they pull into a driveway across the street. 

Quickly breaking free from Jo, at the chance it may be Jimmy, Dean looks across the street, and for someone who doesn’t believe in fate, Dean finds himself in shock, because it is Jimmy. 

Dean can see his frame from here, he can tell Jimmy’s still wearing the suit, but what’s this? _A trench coat?_ Dean questions, laughing out loud. He looks back at Jo, who gives Dean an odd look, probably because he just stopped their intense make out session to creep on his strange neighbor, who looks like a flasher.

“Jimmy!” Dean yells, a bit too loud, as he pushes off Jo all the way, “out late partying in the work clothes, so much for tool.”

Dean sees Jimmy’s ear to ear grin from here but he doesn’t answer Dean and he starts heading towards his house. 

“Hold on real fast,” Dean tells Jo, and leaves her pressed up against the impala. 

Moving swiftly across the street, Dean thinks he may not catch him in time. Luckily Jimmy is taking his sweet old time getting to the door. 

Arriving about five feet away from him, Dean notices Jimmy’s already on his porch and turning around to look at him. Jimmy’s eyes stand out from the dark of the night and Dean’s breath actually hitches a bit as he absorbs the full state of Jimmy’s appearance. For some reason Jimmy has small dirt stains around his knees, which _could have_ been caused by multiple things. Although Dean’s mind instantly turns the discovery into something much dirtier than just having to kneel in a muddy parking lot; all he can picture is Jimmy down on his knees, deep in some forest, looking up at Dean with those damn eyes while he runs his fingers through Jimmy’s soft, thick hair, and it really isn’t helping that Jimmy’s hair is stuck up in every direction possible. 

And the damn trench coat! _What the hell is that about?_ Dean wonders. Normally the trench coat would make most men look like flashers, although Dean finds that Jimmy can, more than, pull off the mysterious jacket flapping in the wind look. The tan material hangs loosely around him and Dean can’t help but think Jimmy looks like a total badass. 

“Hey are you tired?” Dean asks as he’s finally able to break his horny thought process and form words.

“No, not really—” Jimmy begins to explain, but that’s all Dean needs to hear. 

“Good me either, I’m about to run Jo home then I’ll be back. Mmk?” Dean asks, and because he’s a little—okay, a lot—frightened that Jimmy might say no, Dean turns and starts walking back to the car without an answer. 

Reaching the impala once again, Dean slides in on the driver’s side. Since Jo’s already waiting on the passenger seat. Placing the keys in the ignition, Dean thrust his grip forward until baby rumbles to life.

“What the hell was that about?” Jo asks as Dean pulls out of the driveway.

“What do you mean?” he quickly asks back, because honestly, is it really that weird to talk to your neighbors? 

“Since when is Dean Winchester friendly?” Jo questions as her explanation, although her tone is light and playful.

“Hey, I’m always nice!” Dean spits back, even though he know she means _since when is Dean Winchester nice to some random, suburban-living, twenty plus year old, trench coated man?_

“Sure,” Jo says and Dean spares a glance at her, then focus his eyes back on the road. She doesn’t look mad, she’s actually smirking. 

Not knowing what to say, Dean lets silence fall through the car. 

After a couple minutes of silence, Dean hears Jo rustling in the seat next to him.

“I know you’re queer,” Jo whispers in a small, low voice. 

Dean’s mouth physically drops and he’s unable to close it. _Did she really just say that?_ Dean questions himself, mind reeling, _no friggin’ way!_ He must have heard wrong, this has to be his imagination fucking with him; warning Dean to stay the fuck away from Jimmy.

Although as he turns to look at Jo, he can tell by her scared, gaping eyes that she really did say that and is waiting for a reply, and by the look for it she’s expecting some kind of screaming. 

Keeping quiet, he lets his eyes fall back on the road ahead. 

_How the hell does Jo know that?_ Dean wonders, he’s never told anyone or anything.

“It’s not a big deal,” she adds, “at least not to me.”

“What in the hell? I’m not—” Dean tries to argue. 

“Don’t lie, Dean,” Jo cuts him off, “the only person who’s known you longer than me is Sammy, and I can tell.” She smirks again and her sly grin is really starting to bother Dean, “and besides you remember the bus boy from Georgia?”

Dean’s eyes automatically widen in response. Of course he remembers the bus boy from Georgia—Cody—he was the first guy who ever sucked Dean’s dick. 

“Well, when we were at that party with him I saw you guys in the bedroom,” Jo explains.

_Fuuuck,_ Dean mentally groans. Jo isn’t lying, Dean remembers the exact party she’s talking about. Although that doesn’t mean he has to admit it. Everyone was drinking at that party; Dean can blame it on the fact he was only fifteen and took like twelve shots of whiskey. 

Keeping his eyes focused on the road, Dean tries, hopefully Jo won’t know he’s lying, “that was definitely a one time, way too drunk—took twelve shots of Ellen’s best whiskey—thing.” He doesn’t look at her expression, but hopefully she buying this, “plus I was like fifteen!”

He doesn’t let his eyes leave the road, but as soon as Jo smiles Dean can practically feel her grin pulsing through the car. 

“Okay, well then there’s the fact that we just made out for like five minutes pressed up against a car you call baby that can probably turn you on all by itself and not one time did I feel you hard against my leg . . . although when you come back from talking to creepy flasher dude across the street, I can see your tent from twenty feet away.”

“Come on, Jo,” Dean tries again, “I’ve gotten hard for you plenty of times.”

“Does that explain the tent?” Jo asks, words full of sarcasm.

Dean opens his mouth to speak but Jo cuts him off before he can even begin to give more excuses, “look Dean, I’m sorry I brought it up. You’re obviously not ready to talk about it and I completely understand why; it just always upsets me that you won’t talk to me about it or anything! I was just hoping we could maybe acknowledge that fact that we’re family and I’m going to be here for you no matter what. You can tell me anything, I love you for who you are and whether you lie about it or not won’t change a damn thing.”

He lets the words hang in the air for a second because he knows Jo’s right, she’s always fucking right, and he really should tell her, or at least talk to her about his problems. But for some reason Dean’s just having a really hard time spitting it out. Dean gathers up all his courage. Here goes nothing . . . 

“Okay, well first of all I’m not _queer_. At least not all the way, I mean you’re right about Cody, the bus boy. I definitely was enjoying, ugh . . . that, and it definitely wasn’t the first or last time” he coughs a little, imagining the images in Jo’s head right now; although she’s smiling again.

“I knew it!” Jo’s excitement is hard to miss, “why didn’t you just tell me?”

“That’s not just something you go around telling people,” Dean completely ignores the fact that Jo is smiling and speaking lightly, he goes for using a darker, rough tone, “even your best friend.”

Because honestly, being a queer isn’t something you talk about, at least not in Kansas or any of the other places Dean’s been so far. Now, he’s not one to be ashamed about himself, but Sammy needs Dean in one piece. If he goes around not giving a flying fuck about who knows he sucks cock, plenty of people—including their dad—would find that worthy of a beating. 

“You honestly think I would care, or tell anybody?” Jo asks letting her anger ring through her words.

“It’s not like that Jo,” Dean wants to explain, but words won’t come, she won’t understand, “I’m sorr—”

“So . . .” Jo cuts him off, drawling out her question, meaning she’s about to ask something he won’t want to answer, “This mysterious, trenched neighbor?”

“What?” Dean asks and unconsciously cough a bit, thinking, _God, I’m so obvious._

She laughs, “Are we really doing this again, Dean?” She points to his pants, “I saw your little issue . . . there must be something going on in that perverted head of yours. I’m just wondering if it’s a mutual thing or what?” 

“His name’s Jimmy, and there’s is nothing going on at all!” Dean assures, trying to make that as clear as possible, “He’s just nice, and he just was a little . . . um . . . ruffled and had some very mysterious dirt stains on his knees.” 

She actually burst with laughter, and after a minute of high pitched screeches, she calms herself and says, “Only you.”

That’s all she says on the subject, and Dean’s grateful.

Pulling off exit eight, Dean sees Ellen’s truck down at a gas station. 

Dean pulls the car over and hops out. Ellen’s already out and embraces him in a huge hug. As soon as Ellen lets Dean go, Jo’s there gripping him again. 

“I’ll come back as soon as I can,” Jo promises. 

She’s walks around to the passenger side of the truck and jumps in.

Ellen smiles, “come visit us soon too, it won’t kill you to come to your hometown for a little while . . .” She hops back in the driver seat, “and tell your daddy to call me please.”

The ride back is slow. Dean’s nerves are building up more and more with every mile he drives.

Letting his mind drift to Jimmy, and the night to come, Dean tries to imagine all the possibilities of what could happen. 

After about fifteen minutes of daydreaming the ‘what ifs,’ which mostly end with Dean getting kicked out in every scenario, he sees the exit zero sign and merges off the highway. By the time Dean reaches the house, he concludes this night isn’t gonna happen without some liquor.

Opening the door slowly, Dean tries desperately to be quiet. Although his attempt quickly falters as he trips over Sammy’s big ass sneaker. Dean looks around but nothing stirs, which means his dad must be passed out already tonight. Normally, John has ears like a hawk. 

Proceeding to the kitchen, Dean seeks out the whiskey, but it’s nowhere to be found. Taking take a leap of faith, Dean checks around the corner by the trashcan. _Of friggin’ course,_ Dean thinks, sighing, and mentally cursing his father. There stands the empty bottle next to the full trash can, which confirms Dean’s suspicions of his dad being hammered. John just went to the liquor store today, which means he drank that whole fifth and—hold on, he’ll check the fridge—a whole twelve pack of beers!

Dean almost starts to get mad, but then he remembers the vodka his dad brought home the other day from work. He said Dean could drink it with his friends ‘cause he ain’t drinking no dirty commie vodka.’ Apparently this stuff is like super good shit over there, though. _So why the hell not?_ Dean thinks, _Jimmy won’t care._ At least, Dean hopes Jimmy doesn’t have a problem with a little commie Vodka.

Dean’s looking down at his boots, the dew managed to turn them into soaking messes. Although, his wet shoes are the least of his problems. Dean’s been standing at Jimmy’s door for the past five minutes contemplating knocking. He didn’t even let Jimmy answer, Dean doesn’t even know if Jimmy wants to see him. Either way, Dean’s here, and there’s no going back now. He pats the vodka, stashed in his jacket, for support. 

Bringing his hand up, Dean makes contact with the solid wood. One thud, two thuds, three thuds; and he’s left waiting. 


	5. Forty-year-old Virgins

[ ](http://tinypic.com?ref=33lfqjs)

"Dean doesn’t understand what he’s done, 

but it’s okay, because Castiel still can’t stop smiling."

-C-

Having no clue as to how long Dean was planning on taking, Castiel used the time to take a quick shower.

He gets out and is dressed before Dean is back. Cas decides on jeans and a plain black T-shirt. 

He hears a knock at the door.

_Dean,_ Castiel thinks, already smiling.

Heading down the steps, Cas rushes through the furniture to answer the door.

Dean’s grin is mysterious as always and Castiel can see he’s holding some kind of bag under his jacket.

“May I come in?” Dean asks, and his smile only grows wider, his eyes only grow crinklier.

“Since when do you ask?” Cas jokes. 

“Come on, that was one time,” Dean says, although he pushes past Castiel and into the house again, “and pretty rare circumstances if you ask me.”

Following Dean, Cas replies, “I suppose.”

Castiel’s expecting Dean to sit on the couch, instead he flaunts around the whole living room, eyeing everything. _He must get that from John,_ Castiel decides, watching Dean inspect his home. Next, Dean heads to the kitchen.

Dean rolls his hands against the smooth countertop, “You know, this is pretty impressive for a single guy who sells radios.”

Cas wants to say one of the million excuses he had planned, but instead the truth bubbles up, “I love to clean when I’m bored.”

“How come? Seems _boring_.” Dean implores and Castiel is about to answer until Dean pulls the black bag out of his jacket. 

As soon as Dean pulls the bottle out of the bag, Castiel knows, automatically, what it is. Placing it on the counter, Dean asks, “You know what this is?”

“Yeah, its vodka right?” Castiel questions, although, he really knows everything about it. _It’s fucking Imperia vodka for Christ’s sake,_ Castiel thinks. 

“Not just any _vodka_ ,” Dean explains, “Apparently, this stuff is like gold to the commies.”

“Really?” Castiel asks as he reaches for the bottle. He always wanted to try some back home, but they never had enough money; and when he came here, ‘Jimmy’ was never allowed to buy it himself, too suspicious. 

Dean hands over the bottle and the bumpy glass massages Castiel’s hand. It’s beautiful—he looks up at Dean for a second then back at the bottle—it really is.

“Yeah, my dad confiscated it from this asshole commie working at a stereo shop,” Dean says and retreats to the other side of the counter to join Castiel.

Dean’s heat lands on his side, and Castiel can’t even think, let alone be mad about the “commie” remark. 

Nobody has ever made Castiel feel this special. Nobody has ever brought him expensive vodka in hopes of sharing with him, and Dean, he’s . . . he’s not even trying! He honestly has no clue what this means to Castiel. Dean just stole some random liquor from his dad, he doesn’t even know Castiel’s communist. Dean doesn’t understand what he’s done, but it’s okay, because Castiel still can’t stop smiling.

“What’s wrong?” Dean asks, his eyebrows scrunching into one concerned brow.

“Nothing . . . I mean, I’m just smiling, what’s wrong with that?” he asks.

“Yeah, but I’ve never seen you smile like _that_ before, it’s different.” Dean explains.

“I guess I’m just happy,” Castiel says, seeing no point in making up excuses.

“How come? Over some shitty Soviet vodka?” Dean questions with a smirk.

_Ouch,_ Castiel thinks, grinning despite himself, _that hurt._ “No Dean, not because of the vodka, just, I don’t know . . . you’re being nice, nicer than most people.”

Dean’s head drops for a few seconds, and Castiel can see the smile trying to peek up the corner of his lips. Bringing his head back up, Castiel meets his eyes, they’re soft and he could swear Dean’s freckles are glowing.

Eventually, they retreat back to the living room after Dean locates Castiel’s glass cups and the soda from his fridge. 

Dean sits on the loveseat, and though he’s probably planning on Castiel taking the larger couch across from him, Castiel can’t help but sit on the cushion next to Dean. Everything seems to be warmer around Dean and he loves it. Castiel feels like he can’t pull himself away. 

Dean pours the liquor in both their glasses and takes the first drink of his.

Dean croaks, “Damn, I’m definitely more of a whiskey man.”

_Ew,_ Castiel thinks, but he lets himself laugh about Deans little choke. 

Castiel knows he really, really shouldn’t, but he tips his glass back and chugs all the clear liquid, anyway. Dean watches with wide eyes.

After downing the whole glass, Castiel slams it on table, resulting in a sharp clank. His belly instantly warms and sends a tingling sensation throughout his limbs.

Licking his lips, Castiel savors the last little taste that’s still clinging on.

“Damn, you really can drink, huh?” Dean asks with a gaping, impressed stare.

“I can,” Castiel answers, shifting in his seat. He really should be more careful around Dean, but he can’t help himself for the good of anything. A tight grip is pulling him on the inside and Castiel realizes he wants Dean, more than anything, to know the real Castiel for some reason. “Besides, this,” Castiel explains further, pointing to the bottle, “is _gooood._ ”

“Well I’ll have to learn to like it then.”

Castiel smiles. And Dean smiles. 

After the third or fourth glass, Dean’s already spoken about all the possible current events he can think of, and starts getting to the personal stuff.

“Sammy is such a great kid, I want him to get to know you. You seem like a good role model for him . . . strong, nice, funny, smart, and mostly _around,_ ” Dean shifts, and it pushes him closer to Castiel, he can practically feel Dean’s heat radiating and prickling his side again. 

The way Dean’s eyes light up when he talks about Sam warms Castiel’s belly more than the vodka ever could. Dean is such an amazing person, so caring and loving.

“He seems like it,” Castiel points out, letting himself lean closer to Dean, and to his surprise, Dean doesn’t back away. Instead, he smiles and leans across Castiel to pick up his glass off the coffee table.

“Enough about Sammy,” Dean declares as he brings the glass up to his mouth and sips. Then he adds, “Tell me more about you.”

_Ah shit,_ Castiel inwardly curses. For some reason Castiel finds it’s difficult to even think of his fake life right now, despite living it for the past sixteen years. Quickly, willing himself, Castiel begins telling, “Well, I grew up in Bradford and then—”

But he’s taken by surprise when Dean’s hand suddenly finds his thigh causing him to let out a gasp instead of completing the sentence. But Dean’s hand doesn’t move, his long fingers continue to warm Castiel’s leg. 

The whole time Castiel’s been in America, he’s never had another male touch him like that. Women, sure. That’s understandable, women are generally touchier than men, but this touch doesn’t feel the same as when the librarian’s hand finds Castiel’s shoulder while helping him search for a book. Dean’s touch is intense, his hand is heavy and definitely squeezing a little bit. 

Eyes shooting up to find Dean’s, his green eyes hit Castiel like lasers. He even can’t think; let alone finish the completely made up life-story. 

“Uhhh,” He tries to speak, but nothing comes out.

Dean’s expression instantly changes from giddy and smiley to scared and nervous, clearly Castiel losing the ability to speak has upset him. 

He removes his hand quickly, “Sorry man, didn’t mean to freak you out,” he shifts in his seat, and the movement pulls him further away. Losing Dean’s warmness is not agreeing with Castiel’s body, “I get a little, _you know,_ touchy sometimes when I drink too much.”

“You didn’t, it’s just . . .” After trying for the right words, he has to trail off, having no clue what to say because really, “I don’t understand.”

“What do you mean you don’t understand?” Dean asks.

“No other male has ever touched me like that, it was just _different.”_

It was different, very different, Dean’s touch made him feel funny inside.

Back in Moscow, someone might accuse them of being homosexual for a touch like that, but Castiel has to remember, this isn’t the motherland, and Dean’s not a communist. He’s a laid back, young, American teenager. 

Dean blushes, and the redness makes every tiny brown freckle on his cheeks stand out.

So Castiel decides to touch Dean’s leg, because if that’s what’s okay for Americans--though no other American male has ever touched him like that, but Castiel truly has had little experience with American men, besides killing them, that is—then it must be okay for him to do it back. 

Dean’s eyes spring up and find Castiel’s once again.

Keeping their eyes locked, Castiel lets himself smile as wide as possible, “it wasn’t bad though.”

Dean smiles back, and Castiel know he’s done something right, because Dean’s new soft, happy look sends tingles all over his body. 

One thing they never taught him when he was learning about America and his new identity was _sex._ Castiel always assumed it was the same everywhere, so he figured he could just rely on what his mother taught him while growing up, when a girl and a boy love each other, they have sex.

Considering he was fifteen when he joined the KGB and his life has been dedicated to it ever since, Castiel’s never had a chance to meet a girl in Moscow and have sex; and when he got here, Castiel never found any woman attractive in the right ways. 

Secretly, Castiel always had a crush on Nadheska, another spy stationed here in Philly who goes by the name Elizabeth now. She is the replica of what Castiel wants in a woman. Strong, smart, tough, dedicated, doesn’t take anyone’s shit, and most of all, lives for the Motherland. Although, she was paired with Misca when they were sent to America; and no American woman could ever compare to her utter beauty and strength, inside and out. 

So, when Dean touched Castiel’s leg, and he touched Dean’s back, he had no clue that Dean springing forward and pressing their lips would be what happened next.

But it is.

Dean launches forward, and his pink lips smash against Castiel’s frozen ones. He’s literally stuck in shock for a moment unable to pull away, unable to do anything. 

The moment’s over as soon as it starts, and Dean’s pulling away from Castiel and retreating as far back on the couch as possible. His lean frame smashes into the pillows, and his eyes are wide with fear. 

“Oh, god,” Dean barely lets out, his breathing is at maximum overdrive and Dean’s next words are coming in fast confused patches, “I—I thought that was . . . I—look—I’m sorry please don’t tell my dad,” Dean pleads. 

Castiel wants more than anything to answer and, in his defense, he does open his mouth to speak, but suddenly his throat is squeezing tightly together and no words, no matter how small, can slip through. 

Beginning to rock back and forth, Dean slumps forward, hands hiding his face. 

No matter how shocked and confused Castiel is, seeing Dean like this is unpleasant and making his stomach knot. Without realizing it, Castiel has been labeling Dean in his mind. Now when thinking of Dean, Castiel thinks of faith, passion, and strength. Or in other words, he’s been unconsciously thinking of Dean as an officer in training. Dean is the only young man Castiel’s met in America who he’s believed faithful enough to make it as an officer. Even though Dean’s blind faith lies with his father’s beliefs, and theirs must only lie with the motherland. Still, seeing him curled, slumped over, and looking so weak is not appealing. 

Unable to form words, Castiel reaches out, finding Dean’s shoulder, and tries soothing him for a minute by letting his fingers run across the tense muscle connecting Dean’s neck and arm. At the touch, Dean lifts his head, and their eyes met again.

He still looks so frightened and Castiel really hates that. Gripping his shoulder tight, Castiel raises Dean up so he’s sitting straight.

Words _finally_ come.

Still gripping his shoulder, Castiel speaks to him, “Don’t be ashamed and, if you are, certainly don’t slump about it.”

Dean blinks, eyes now full with confusion, more than fright. 

And Castiel can’t help thinking, even in this tense moment, that Dean really is a sight. He doesn’t quite know why, but Dean’s suddenly the most beautiful thing Castiel’s ever seen.

“It’s unattractive,” Castiel adds, offering a slight smile, wondering what the hell he’s getting himself into. 

Then something clicks as Dean slowly starts smiling back.

_It’s different,_ Castiel thinks, and the discovery nearly knocks the air from his lungs.

With Dean, _everything_ is different, and Castiel sort of likes it. Really likes it.

When dealing with other Americans, Castiel finds himself contemplating situations for how he should react, and when to react. He searches his mind for the right way to smile or frown, but with Dean, it’s like the rational part of Castiel’s brain shuts down and hands the decision making over to his emotions. He doesn’t think about his duty, instead he thinks only of Dean. Wonders what Dean is thinking and feeling, wishing he could just know somehow. He should be able to read Dean, like he does everyone else, but he can’t, which is beyond dangerous and something a trained spy like Castiel should have control over. 

Suddenly, he thinks of Johnny and what happened to him, simply from falling in love with someone. It’s scary, but then Dean’s smiling again, flickering relief through Castiel, and easing the tension in the room.

“So. . .” Dean decrees and after a brief pause he continues, “You’re not into guys I guess, huh?” He asks and further adds, “Which is totally cool, but you know, I just thought . . . I don’t know, the way you were looking at me just . . .”

Dean falls silent. 

To be honest, Castiel’s never really thought about it. Back in the motherland the scare of HIV was too high for anyone to openly be homosexual, but of course, there were surely a few people who chose to do it in the dark. Sometimes, people would even be arrested if they were found to be both sexually active with men and women, which is completely for the women’s safety of not contracting HIV.

“And you like guys?” Castiel asks, avoiding Dean’s question because he doesn’t know what to say; Castiel’s never been with either, man or women. “I mean, aren’t you scared of AIDS?” The question comes out nastier than he expects it to, but he can’t help it. “And I saw you with that blonde girl out there, you didn’t seem like you liked guys then.”

Castiel can tell Dean’s surprised by his first questions, but his face lightens a bit when Castiel asks about the girl.

“What? Ya jealous, Jimmy?” Dean jokes and Castiel doesn’t know why, but hearing Dean call him ‘Jimmy’ is very displeasing all the sudden; he just wants to hear the way Castiel rolls off Dean’s tongue. 

Castiel’s about to answer, but Dean continues (he makes a mental note that Dean seems to ask a lot of questions he doesn’t care to find the answer to).

“I’m not picky, and Jo’s an old friend who was visiting to check out our new place,” Dean explains, “and I’ve never actually done it with a guy,” he clarifies. “Now stop avoiding my question, are you into me cause you look at me like . . . wow . . . I don’t even know, but its _intense._ ”

“I don’t believe you asked me that,” Castiel quickly clarifies while blushing, because he really hadn’t meant to stare at Dean in a sexual way, “you asked if I was into guys and no, I’m not, but I guess you could say I’m not really into women either.”

Dean crinkles his face in questioning and Castiel has to smile, because Dean’s drunk confused face is really adorable. _Oh god, now he’s adorable,_ Castiel thinks.

“What do you mean?” Dean asks.

Knowing that Dean’s going to find it weird that he hasn’t had sex before, Castiel pauses, thinking over his next words. He can’t think of any reason a man his age would still be a virgin. Well, besides the obvious one of dedicating his life to becoming a soldier at age fifteen. Well, he can’t say that, but he can’t lie either; not after Dean has been being so open with Castiel: 

“I’ve never had sex.”

Dean laughs and Castiel just sits there until he gets it out of his system.

“Wait . . . you’re serious?” Dean asks after a minute of giggles.

“Yes.”

“But you’re like thirty . . .”


	6. Things Might be Getting Complicated

-C-

The bed is warm and he really doesn’t want to move. If Castiel moves he might remember. _Damn it, too late,_ Castiel sighs, he just did. Everything comes crashing back. The memories flicker across the front of his mind and play over and over again. Scrunching his face, rolling on his back, and pulling the closest pillow tightly across his face, Castiel groans. _Dean kissed me last night,_ Castiel thinks, _Dean Winchester, F.B.I. agent’s son, Dean Winchester._

Why the hell did he do it is what Castiel really wants to know. Dean said it himself, _I’m like thirty._

_Thirty, Jesus,_ Castiel mentally curses. If only Dean knew Castiel is already thirty-seven. Dean shared his age last night, eighteen, eighteen fucking years old, Dean is still a child. 

Castiel just. He was just _so_ convinced that Dean had no idea bringing over that vodka meant something to him. He was convinced that he was letting his emotions, as well as his ability to read others emotions be affected by sensations of the motherland, bad jokes, laughter, and green eyes.

Although, it seems while Castiel was caught up, trying not to let his own emotions take over, because of a few warm feelings, Dean was caught up in, well, Castiel. 

And that is strange. It’s not strange because Dean’s a man anymore (Castiel got over that discovery last night), it’s really not too strange that Dean’s nineteen years younger than Castiel either, and it’s not even that strange that his dads in the F.B.I. 

It’s just strange because Dean’s American, thoroughbred, and Castiel’s a _communist_ from _The Soviet Union._

_Huge_ difference. 

Oh yeah, and did he not mention, Castiel’s not just a commie, he’s a fucking _spy,_ who _steals_ and _kills_ people to get a hold of all America’s precious little secrets. Spies don’t fall for the Americans, they play them. 

Like he’s said before, Dean may have the faith and inner strength that’s right for communism, but his faith points in the opposite direction. _I mean,_ Castiel thinks, _if you cut him, he might just bleed red, white, and blue._

They’re from two totally different worlds. Dean may as well be a completely different species, like the fish in the sea and the birds in the sky.

If he knew the real Castiel, there is no way in hell Dean would’ve tried to kiss him then. If he knew how many of his people Castiel’s killed, probably some of John’s friends, he might add. If Dean found out Castiel is one of those asshole commies, the boy would turn around and never look back. 

That’s why Castiel had to send Dean home last night. 

He’ll admit, he wants Dean, but Castiel wants Dean for who he is, and Dean will never want Castiel for who he is. 

Dean just wants Jimmy, the radio salesman. 

But Dean still looked . . . well, disappointed, is the emotion closest to the one Dean sported as he left last night. Seeing Dean’s eyes lose some of that spark that keeps them burning bright, saddened Castiel. It’s better like this though, his mind needs to be clear the next couple of days, he has lots of work to do.

He has a meeting with Meg today.

Castiel needs to quit whining in bed and prepare for that. 

They meet at a park bench about twenty minutes out from the city. Meg’s sitting up straight and casually has a cigarette resting between her index and middle finger. _Like always,_ Castiel thinks, grinning to himself. Sitting on the bench next to her, Castiel watches as the smoke bellows from the cherry. She takes one long drag of the cigarette and then throws the burning tobacco down on the patch of grass to the left of her. 

The last of the smoke streams out of her mouth as she speaks, “Have you found your targets?” She asks.

“Yes,” Castiel answers, because he spent all day finding them. He’s planned it out very carefully, he chose Marty Denhue and Peter Barlow who both maintain minor roles at the federal bureau office. He decided working his way up is the best course of action, because maybe they’ll think it’s just random acts of hate until one of their agents gets blown up—

_Oh. Fuck._

At that thought, a small singe begins burning in Castiel’s chest and it catches him off guard. He almost gasps aloud, but manages to keep his emotions contained. 

Suddenly, all he can picture is that damn hunk of metal— _what is it? An Impala?_ Castiel thinks—getting blown up, and Dean and Sam being taken out of existence at the blink of an eye as collateral damage. Of course, Castiel would never do that, make a careless mistake that would lead to the death of two innocent kids. Although, he can’t speak for everyone in the KGB, and he knows others have been assigned the same task as him and—

“Good. Do you need anything else?” Meg grabs Castiel out of his thought process by asking another question. 

He’s about to say no, when something completely different and off-topic bubbles to the surface and slips through: 

“I think I’m gay, Meg.”

At the words, Meg turns to look at Castiel for the first time all day. Her eyes burn into his skin and his eyes, he supposes, are wide and blatantly shocked because he seriously can’t believe he just said that. _What in the hell is wrong with me?_ Castiel wonders.

Meg’s face lightens all the sudden and then she’s reaching up, clasping her fingers around his chin. She stares at Castiel with soft eyes for a second and then begins to laugh.

“Oh Castiel, what will we do with you,” she chuckles out, the use of his real name is foreign, but so very pleasing none the less. Her hand stays attached to his face, “So, does that mean Jimmy’s gay as well? Because they aren’t too kind to queers here either, you know.”

“There is no Castiel anymore, Anzhelika, there is only Jimmy,” he points out as she begins rubbing her thumb gently back and forth along his jaw. “I haven’t even heard that name in thirteen years, you haven’t called me that since the news about Johnny.” 

Meg stays silent, and Castiel doesn’t say anything else along those lines because he knows Meg must miss her old identity as well. He’s not going to whine about it.

Placing her hand over his, she causes Castiel’s palm to lie flat on the warm dry wood. She squeezes tightly and even though she hasn’t really helped with any of his issues, it’s always reassuring to know Anzhelika will be there for him. 

As he loses the warmness of her hand, she gets up without another word and strolls down the path leading to the parking lot. Leaving Castiel to watch her until she’s out of sight. 

Thoughts of Dean have been pressing at the edges of Castiel’s mind this whole time. He desperately wishes he could make them stop. 

The park bench is hard and cold, but he doesn’t want to move. Bits and pieces of that earlier day nightmare are still trying to cling on and overtake his thoughts. Finally, pushing the pesky images towards the back of my mind, he stands and walks back to his car. 

By the time he pulls in the neighborhood, thoughts of Dean dying have been washed away by stop lights, road hazards, and squirrels running across the road. Taking a right towards home, Castiel’s house comes in to view and he tries _very hard_ to keep his eyes focused on the brown bricks, but before he knows it, his head is whipping towards Dean’s driveway.

_Oh God help me,_ Castiel inwardly pleads, because Dean’s outside. Dean’s outside working on the impala. Dean’s outside working on the impala _topless._ Castiel’s eyes are glued. He can see the sweat forming along Dean’s back, and the way a shine has taking home around Dean’s brows. Castiel continues to stare at the way Dean’s muscles constrict as he messes with something under the hood. 

Dean pulls back and spots Castiel’s car. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t wink. He doesn’t even look at Castiel for too long. He simply picks up the dirty blue towel laying on the concrete next to him and wipes his face. The blue cotton accidentally catches the edges of his blonde hair, making the strands around his forehead stand up. 

Pulling into the driveway, Castiel finally looks away, even though he finds himself really wanting to watch. He looks back in the rearview mirror, and Dean’s retreating back into his house anyway. 

Instead of going back inside, he sits in the car. His ears are hot and there’s a ring sounding throughout his whole body. Closing his eyes, Castiel moves a hand towards the front of his pants, already suspecting what he’s going to feel. _Damn it,_ Castiel curses himself. His hardness does, indeed, press back.

Castiel can’t fathom _why._

Why, after sixteen years of doing his job perfectly fine, does he suddenly have these feelings?

Opening the door, Castiel gets out and slams the metal shut behind him. What pisses him off the most is the fact that he should be thinking about the work he needs to do before tonight and forgetting about Dean, but of course the only thoughts that seem to slip up are of Dean. 

Passing the couch without a second glance, Castiel heads straight towards the bedroom. 

He plops down on the mattress, falling on his backside. Castiel can feel his hardness now pulsing under the restraint of his jeans. The full grown erection isn’t getting any smaller, and he can’t seem to think of anything other than Dean.

Undoing the button and zipper, he quickly pulls down his jeans. Castiel’s dick still trapped by boxer’s but it springs up as much as possible.

He gives it a few long strokes through the fabric then skittishly pushes his boxers down. Castiel feels the wetness of precum slide down his thighs as his cock’s freed.

He’s never jacked off thinking about a man before, but this is necessary.

Closing his eyes, Castiel pictures Dean back in Moscow at first, but something quickly feels wrong. He changes the scape to a quiet farm with the closest person living miles away. Next, Castiel pictures Dean, just as he was today, topless with jeans sagging a little lower than they should, glaring at something under the hood of that damn black car.

Taking a minute to remember exactly how Dean’s muscles were moving as he fidgeted with the instruments beneath the hood, he then reaches into the drawer beside his bed and grabs the small container of lotion.

After apply a small amount to his hand, Castiel grabs his hardness and gives himself two long strokes, allowing the lotion to spread around the tightly pulled skin.

The next thing he thinks about is him appearing next to Dean. Castiel imagines it’s easy. In this fantasy, he doesn’t even have to speak, doesn’t have to explain anything. Castiel can just touch. He places himself behind Dean, and effortlessly runs his fingers down the boy’s back. Dean doesn’t look at Castiel with wide eyes, nor he does he say stop. Instead, he leans into the touch and arches his back.

Beginning to find rhythm in his strokes, Castiel imagines Dean slamming the hood and turning around to meet his eyes. His green eyes are filled with lust, just as they were the other night before their kiss. He pulls Castiel close and they both fall against the cold metal of the impala. In the fantasy, their lips meet finally, and Castiel can practically feel the press of Dean’s lips against his own—just as they felt when they really did kiss—his skin is soft and smooth, but the actual kiss is rough and strong.

As they deepen the kiss, Castiel can feel his dick starting to pulse. So he let’s the daydream move forward, dragging his lips down Dean’s unguarded neck, and placing small bites along the way. Castiel moves down to his chest and nibbles at Dean’s pert nipples. Dean lets out a gasp and grabs on to Castiel’s arms.

He keeps kissing all the way down, until Castiel reaches the denim. Pulling down Dean’s jeans and boxers, Castiel finds Dean’s dick, pulsing and hard, ready for him.

He’s forced to slow his strokes at that thought, because he almost spilled right then thinking about Dean getting that hard from Castiel’s kisses.

Continuing on, Castiel goes back to his original pace, and thinks about Dean’s hard cock bobbing in front of his face. They’re so many dirty thoughts racing through his head. Although, Castiel chooses to let his lips find Dean’s hardness. He imagines Dean making all sorts of dirty noises as his lips find their way down the shaft.

Castiel imagines his lips and mouth are overtaken with spit as he slides up and down Dean’s dick as fast and as tight as he possibly can. He imagines Dean’s hand finding his hair, helping Castiel move up and down on his dick.

With his dick harder than it’s ever been, Castiel can feel the heat building inside. He knows that he’s not going to last much longer. So, Castiel strokes rougher and faster, picturing Dean losing it. Bringing his hips up off the hood and shoving his dick further into Castiel’s mouth. He does this motion several times and then Castiel imagines a hot wetness, different from spit, filling his mouth.

At this thought, Castiel body’s brought overboard, and the muscles in his legs contract as he strokes down a few hard times until he’s bursting.

The warm white liquid stains Castiel’s belly, and lands in a few of the hairs around his dick.

Stroking effortlessly a few more times, Castiel sends himself into a twitching frenzy.

He waits for the regret and shame to come, but it never does. All he feels is light. Castiel’s body glows like lava as it moves around the lamp.

All he feels is accomplished, despite not really touching Dean.

Eventually, he has to get up or Meg is going to kill him. Simple as that, and completely serious. Tonight is date night. It’s something he and Meg have been doing since 1975. It was her idea, because Castiel was concerned about a neighbor who had moved in next door and commented on how he thought it was weird Castiel never brought any girls home; so Meg decided she would be the girl Castiel brought home every once in a while. They usually go out to eat then she comes back to his house. Usually, they come home and make a ruckus so the neighbors will think Castiel has friends. She stays the night sometimes, but he always takes the couch when she does. Meg is a good friend, and Castiel has a lot of respect for her, but he’s never thought of her in that way. _Apparently, she’s not my type,_ Castiel thinks, snorting to himself. 


	7. Soviet Women and Their Evil Plans

  
[ ](http://tinypic.com?ref=30u6y60)

". . . with him being a teenager and her being the highly trained, 

highly lethal spy that she is."

-C-

He picks up Meg from some apartment complex that isn’t hers. She looks beautiful; she’s wearing a knee length black dress and a black leather jacket. _Typical Meg,_ Castiel thinks, smiling to himself. Seeing Meg as dressed as herself is a rare and special thing that Castiel cherishes. Its not because he thinks she looks bad when running around wearing the clothes of an American housewife, but because these few occasions where Castiel catches her decked out in black, looking sixteen again, gives Castiel hope that he might have some of himself left as well. Although, her heels are new tonight Castiel notices, instead of her normal black ones, these are bright red.

“Who are you trying to impress?” Castiel asks after she gets herself seated comfortably, both as a compliment and true concern.

Laughing, Meg pointedly tilts her foot to show off the shiny red pumps.

“You like?” She asks. “I have someone particular in mind . . .”

He questions her response by letting his brows furrow and tilting his head. But then, Castiel turns, looking at the road ahead, and pulls away.

“Who?” he finally has to ask when she doesn’t elaborate.

“Well, first of all, you misunderstand my motive, Jimmy. I don’t wish to impress anyone. I am hoping for a jealous reaction.”

Not knowing what to say, he lets his brows scrunch more.

“Well I thought, just maybe, the F.B.I. agent’s boy might be up around the time we get home,” she explains, and the realization hits him fast and hard.

_Fuck,_ he thinks, already dreading it. Dean will be home. Castiel’s so concerned he almost doesn’t catch it for a second:

“How in the hell did you figure that one out?”

She merely laughs.

_Fucking Soviet women,_ Castiel mentally curses. The night with Meg is coming close to an end, and the moment Castiel’s been dreading is creeping closer. Dean is going to see him with Meg; the night after Dean came over and kissed Castiel. She seems to think it will somehow work towards his advantage. However, Castiel doesn’t see how. All he can picture happening is Dean seeing them together, thinking Castiel’s straight, and believing he hated the kiss, which he really didn’t hate the kiss, and he really doesn’t want Dean thinking that. The kiss may have been rushed and needy, and he might have been shocked at the time but after seeing Dean today it’s clear what he was feeling last night . . . that kiss was everything Castiel needed and more.

Slowly, Castiel makes his way back home, avoiding the highway in hopes of stretching time. Meg is in the passenger seat, and she knows exactly what he’s doing. Although she chooses to keep her mouth shut. She’s still sporting the bright red heels and every time she shifts he catches a glimmer from the reflections moving around the shiny plastic.

Castiel trusts Meg, and her manipulating skills; she once convinced a whole nation she’d been beaten and raped by their prime minister, when she was the one who had drugged him! So if she thinks the new heels and her appearance will be good for Castiel’s chances with Dean, then he sees no other choice than to go with her plan. That doesn’t mean he has to act happy about it, though.

They pull into the driveway around ten. Meg opens the passenger door with a loud creak and clanks her way out. She finds her balance and then dips down to look at Castiel. She winks. Next thing he knows, her door’s being slammed as loud as possible.

Quickly exiting, he shuts his door as lightly as possible. Castiel meets Meg at the front of the car as she starts to walk towards the house. She throws her arm around him.

They’ve been inside for over ten minutes now and no sign of Dean. _I suppose_ , Castiel thinks, _that could be a good thing._ Maybe he didn’t hear them. He and Meg decided to watch TV, she picked something out, he hasn’t really been paying attention. Castiel’s mind wandering across the street.

These feelings are new and frightening. He’s always had one mindset: _Do whatever the motherland asks_. But today, when talking with Meg, he had a realization. He’s planning on blowing up F.B.I. agents, and the man Castiel’s assigned to next could be John. For the first time he felt doubt, because honestly, if they sent an order for Castiel to kill Dean’s dad, well, he doesn’t know if he could do it.

A few more minutes pass, he’s not exactly sure how many, but eventually Meg gets up to go pee, leaving him alone with his thoughts when a soft knock at the door startles him.

Castiel tries to stay calm, although he finds himself racing towards the door in hope that it’s Dean.

Swinging the door open, Cas sees two bright green eyes staring back. He can’t hide his excitement, and he’s pretty sure he’s grinning like a child in a candy store. _God, I love Meg,_ Castiel thinks. Castiel can always trust that her evil plans will come through.

Dean warily smiles back. He looks as handsome as ever, wearing a nice blue button up; it reminds Castiel of an old western get up. Although, he’s wishing he could make Dean smile completely; watch how Dean’s youth and happiness shines through his ear to ear grin. That’s Dean’s best look, not this half smile. 

“You busy?” Dean asks and Castiel can practically see the sarcasm dripping off him.

“No, not at all,” Castiel answers quickly, “come in.”

He waits for Dean to take a step forward, then Castiel proceeds towards the couch.

As soon as he and Dean get settled—this time they’re both sitting on the big sofa, a cushion in-between each other—Meg enters the room. She’s still got on her damn heels, Castiel thinks she was specifically waiting for this moment to take them off, because as soon as she plops back down on the loveseat Meg kicks them across the room like their on fire.

Dean eyes the new addition in the room. And what Castiel said before about Dean’s best look, well, scratch that, this is definitely Dean’s best look. Dean’s intense glare only deepens as Meg smiles over at him. It’s pretty funny seeing Meg get stared down by Dean. _You know_ , Castiel thinks, _with him being a teenager and her being the highly trained, highly lethal spy that she is._

“Dean, this is my good friend Meg.” Castiel explains, hoping to ease some of the tension, because exhilarating as it is, he does wish for tonight to end happily.

Dean softens his stare but doesn’t speak. Meg’s still smiling and, by the look of it, she has something mischievous on her mind.

“Hi Dean, it’s nice to meet you,” Meg sweetly says, _too sweetly_ Castiel thinks, “Jimmy has told me all about you. I didn’t think we’d be meeting so soon though! What brings you over tonight?”

_Oh damn it, Meg. Make it awkward why don’t you?_ He inwardly groans. Castiel doesn’t want Dean to think he’s been gossiping about him, like a twelve year old girl or something. _I mean,_ Castiel thinks, _it was only one kiss,_ and to a guy like Dean that’s probably not even noteworthy.

Dean stutters, “I, um, I was just bored. My younger brother’s staying the night at a friend’s, Dad’s passed out. Just wanted to see what Jimmy was up to.”

“Oh,” Meg gives way to her most demonic smile yet, and Castiel knows this is going to be disastrous, “I was really hoping you had ‘take Jimmy’s virginity’ on your to do list.”

Dean’s mouth drops. If this was a cartoon, his mouth would be scraping the floor. _I mean—Jesus—_ Castiel thinks, he trusts Meg not to screw up his life, but does she honestly have to embarrass the shit out of him the whole time?

Dean actually laughs, well cracks up is more like it.

“Oh honey,” Dean looks at Meg light and flirty for a minute. “That’s at the top of my list,” Dean adds, lustfully, as his eyes find Castiel.

Meg proudly grins over at Castiel, “Well, I don’t want to interrupt any—you know—cock sucking that may be going on tonight, so I’m gonna hit the sack. I’ll take the guest bed tonight.”

And with that, Meg’s heading up the steps. Leaving Castiel here to clean up the mess she—and well, Dean—just made.

Before he can speak, Dean breaks the silence, “Your friend’s really cool, most girls freak out about this sort of thing.”

“Two men having sex? That’s nothing to her . . .” He jokes. “I’ve known her for years, so I doubt there is much I could choose to do to make her hate me.”

Dean parts his lips and lets one of the best smiles yet find his face. Watching Dean is amazing. Before Dean, Castiel saw all the people here in an orderly fashion. He arranged their emotions and their facial expressions all into categories. But with Dean, Castiel can’t. It’s like every time Dean smiles, there’s a new spark behind it. Every time he glares, Castiel can actually feel a new heat building inside Dean radiating the air around them.

Before Dean, there was no color, just black and white, but now, everything Castiel sees is full of life, full of color.

Nervousness thrums through his body as silence once again overtakes the room. Dean’s looking directly at him, Castiel’s eyes, however, find the floor. He doesn’t understand how Dean can be so . . . ready. Castiel’s twice his age and he still feels like his heart is going to burst through his chest. Castiel feels Dean’s weight start to shift, and he brings his eyes up to find Dean moving closer. The couch dips under his weight as he settles in. Castiel keeps his eyes fixed on Dean the whole time.

“You know, we don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to,” Dean says, the words are calming and smooth, but Castiel’s having problems forming an answer.

Dean throws his thin arm around Castiel’s shoulders and squeezes gently before he speaks again, “Matter of fact, I wouldn’t mind just sitting here getting to know you all night.”

Dean’s firmness at his side comforts Castiel, but his words are nothing but alarming. Sure, Castiel would love for Dean to get to know him, but he’s not quite sure how that would be possible. Castiel doesn’t want to spend the whole night lying to Dean, especially when Dean would only be honest in return.

An explanation seems harder, so Castiel pinches his eyelids closed and throws himself Dean, aiming for his lips. At first, Dean’s smooth lips are pulled tight and the kiss is awkward, but a few seconds later Dean loosens up and Castiel thinks it might be the best feeling he’s ever felt. Their lips fit together in the most wonderful ways, every time Castiel gives, Dean takes.

Dean slides his tongue between Castiel’s pliant lips and interacts with his scared tongue; Dean bites Castiel’s bottom lip as he pulls back to look at him.

Suddenly, Castiel’s mind is flooding with questions, _how many times has Dean done this? With a ton of girls? And with how many guys? Will he even want to talk to me after this?_

“Can I just ask you a few things?” Castiel asks, out of the blue.

Dean grins and backs off a bit, but keeps his arm looped around as he answers, “Sure.”

Hesitantly, Castiel asks, “Have you done this a lot? I mean with girls, or anything?”

Dean removes his arm now, only to lay his head on Castiel’s shoulder.

“I’ve made out with more than I can count, from age thirteen to around my sixteenth birthday, I got myself in some really bad places, so I couldn’t tell you the exact number cause I don’t remember,” Dean sighs, and grabs Castiel’s hand, entwining their fingers as he continues, “but I’ve had sex with nine girls, it’s not something I’m proud of. And like I said before, I’ve never done it with a guy, but I’ve have done some sexual things with a few.”

Castiel has to hide his disappointment, because honestly nine? Castiel must be nothing to him.

“But hey,” Dean adds as he squeezes Castiel’s hand tight, “I’ve never been sober with any of them, well actually, one of the guys, but still, I’ve never felt like this. I mean the other night, I just, I couldn’t stop myself. I kept telling myself to stop because it was going to end in disaster, but I couldn’t stop—I had to.”

Noticing how Dean looks at Castiel’s lips as he says this, he takes his first turn at squeezing Dean’s hand.

Dean lets go, and before he can even process what’s happening, Dean’s jumped on top of Castiel and is straddling his legs. Castiel instantly blushes, realizing that Dean can probably feel his erection.

He cradles Castiel’s head in hands and gazes into his eyes. At first, Castiel thinks he sees lust again, but quickly he realizes it’s something else, something softer.

“You are so amazing, Jimmy. Everything about you. I know it’s crazy because I just moved in the other day, but as soon as I saw you I was so strongly attracted to you. And when I heard your voice, I knew it was something I could listen to for hours. Then that night, I felt like I finally got to know you, and I liked you even more . . . and I thought that since you rejected me, you didn’t feel the same. But now I see that you were just scared.”

Dean calls him Jimmy, and Castiel wants to scream right then, ‘fucking call me Castiel please’ but he knows he can’t, because then Dean would want answers. So Castiel ignores it, and focuses on Dean’s others words.

Before he can reply, Dean swoops down and places a chaste kiss on Castiel’s lips, “We never have to be scared again, okay? Let’s just be honest.”

_Honest._ Castiel cringes. He can’t just be honest, however much he wants too. Johnny proved that for every KGB officer. Being honest, even for love, gets you nowhere but dead.

Castiel feels so selfish, letting Dean fall for Jimmy, letting Dean think he’s kissing Jimmy, when really Castiel is a mere stranger to Dean.

But Castiel _wants._

Oh god, does he want. 

The feel of Dean’s legs cocooning his own, the added weight from Dean’s body, the chill of Dean’s hands on his neck, and the taste of Dean lingering on his lips is a whole new high. A whole new emotion. And Castiel, suddenly, doesn’t care about being selfish. 

He grips Dean’s waist and flips their positioning, sending a surprised Dean into the soft cushions.

-D-

There is something new about it this time. It’s the way Jimmy feels on top of him, heavy and hot, completely wanton in a way Dean’s never made anyone before. Shamelessly licking the thick line of his red lips, inches away from Dean’s own. Jimmy’s fluttery set of lashes, dark and thick just like his hair, aren’t doing much to hide the emotions flickering through Jimmy’s hooded eyes either. Sure, Dean’s had some _boys_ drooling over him, but this, _God,_ this is different. Jimmy is different. Dean can feel the want sparking the air around the other man, bordering on need, and he can’t do a thing but surrender under its power. 

Jimmy kisses him then, perfect and messy, like he can read Dean’s mind. Like he was waiting for the exact second that Dean would give in. Jimmy kisses him fiercely, and Dean can tell that the other hasn’t had much practice, but style doesn’t matter right now. No, God no. Dean already knows this event is going to be better than any that’s come before it. Dean can’t tell what it is exactly that’s making these new feelings buzz beneath his skin. It could be the way Jimmy’s solid weight is pressing him into the cushions, letting Dean feel the heavy mass on top of him, and showing Dean bulks of hard muscles he never even knew existed. Or, it could be the way Jimmy’s thick shadow of stubble is lightly scratching Dean’s cheek with each of his needy advances to lick his way further into Dean’s mouth, making Dean moan out loud like a friggin’ whore or something, and nothing like the tickle of thin stubble he’s used to feeling. But it’s probably both of those things, combined with the way Jimmy’s pawing at Dean’s shirt--just pawing, not making any move to tear it off, just needing it like a happy fucking kitten--and moaning into Dean’s mouth right back.

And, suddenly, it’s too much. Dean realizes he’s panting and sweating - notices that they both are. And Dean’s not going to just lay here and let their first time together--Jimmy’s first time ever, he reminds himself--to be short lived, and he is _definitely_ not going to let them cum in their pants like teenagers or something. So, he breaks the kiss, and latches on to Jimmy by grabbing to the messy tuffs that’s become the back of Jimmy’s head somehow. Dean tugs lightly, and Jimmy breaks the kiss to look down at him, confused little knit playing along his brows. Dean can’t help but smile, remembering back to just a few days ago when Jimmy showed up at their doorstep.

“Less clothes,” Dean huffs out as an explanation, watching as Jimmy’s brows unfurl themselves in understanding.

“Yes. Right,” He grins, eyes roaming the expanse of Dean’s body beneath his own. Then, growling in a completely new tone, he shocks Dean by hissing out, “God, _yes.”_

Jimmy quickly takes care of his own shirt first, and Dean’s whole body, unwillingly, heats at the sight of firm muscles that make up the other man’s torso. And Dean has all of two seconds to wonder, _how the hell has he been hiding those puppies,_ before Jimmy’s hands are finding Dean’s shirt and pulling it off of him in the same rushed manner.

Then, its the kissing again, wet and wonderful. This time their skin rubs together, quickly slicking up the skin in between both of their sweating forms, and Dean’s already about to burst again. So, he quickly fumbles with his own jeans, inching them down past his waist, and does the same for Jimmy’s suit pants. They both groan loudly as he does this, watching how Jimmy’s cock springs free from the confines of his boxer briefs - red and dripping, practically aching for release. Then Jimmy snaps, completely fucking debauched, and gives a strangled moan as warning as he latches down, falling on Dean’s hips, and fucking grinding.

They don’t start kissing again, but Dean doesn’t care about that. Not when Jimmy’s head lays right next to his, and Dean can see the way his eyes are screwed shut, and hear every dirty sound that’s falling from his lips. Nor, does his body seem to care that this is probably the awkwardest attempt at sex he’s ever had. Well, with Jimmy rutting on top of him, and their cocks barely touching--Jimmy seems to like how Dean’s pubes feel, rather than his cock--but Dean likes it. God help him. It’s still so fucking good. So much fucking better.

Dean’s about to make an attempt at licking his hand, and taking them both in, stroking them to climax, but Jimmy has different ideas, and right as Dean begins to move his arm, Jimmy squeezes his sides, crying out. His body stuttering above Dean as he cums. Dean watches as Jimmy finishes off, just from the friction of their dry skin alone, and groans, continuing his rutting against Jimmy, even as the other man falls pliant--and rather heavily--on top of him. And he’s fucking humming. Again, like a fucking cat. 

But Dean can feel the smeared mixture of Jimmy lining their stomachs, and cums not five seconds later, letting out an embarrassingly high pitched groan.

The room is silent for a while, the only signs of life being their sounds of heavy breathing, until Jimmy lets out a loud snort--with eyes still closed--and asks, “Did you just squeak?”

“Shut it, I’m not the one _purring_ right now, am I?”

-C-

Castiel just had sex. Well, not _real_ sex, obviously. But a type of sex all the same. 

And sex, well, it's completely fucking wonderful. He now understands what the big deal is, and he really just wants to cry. He can’t move either, he’s stuck, completely blissed out and laying ontop of Dean’s warm form. 

He couldn’t stop smiling right now if someone offered him a hundred dollars. 

Castiel looks to Dean, who’s smiling as well, but also looking a bit breathless. So, Castiel maneuvers them around so they’re beside each other on the couch. Their bodies pressed together at every angle. Castiel can feel from Dean’s toes, to the soft hair on his thighs, to the mess of cum on his belly, to the lean form of his breathing chest. But their faces don’t touch, they’re just inches apart, and Castiel stares into Dean’s eyes, wondering what the hell he’s going to do now.


End file.
